ENCOUNTER with the MOLDBOARD PLOW

Back in about 1930 when I was 20 years old, I went out to plow the quarter section east of the homeplace. We had an old tractor and a four-bottom moldboard plow. That old tractor would stay right in the furrow no matter what, and so if any problem came up with the plow, I would scramble back on the hitch while the tractor was moving and kick out whatever was clogging the blades and then go back to the tractor the same way.

But this particular night, I lost my footing while getting back to the plow and fell down in front of the disks. I grabbed the cutter wheel and lifted it up over my chest, but the cutter blade was headed right for my left knee.

The next thing I knew, I was covered with dirt from my feet to my chest and the tractor was going on up the furrow. I felt my leg and it was bleeding. I was sure that when I pulled it up out of the dirt that there would be no leg. However, my leg came right up out of the dirt.

I climbed up and made it back on the tractor seat and drove to the end of the field. I could feel that a chunk of flesh about the size of a cup had been cut away just on my inner thigh and it opened up and was just being held on by one flap.

My Dad took me to Doctor Newman in Shattuck and they sewed me up.

I still have scars from the moldboard plow that night when I almost lost my leg.

You’re such a wit, Valerie, keep it up. We all need a laugh now and then.
I suppose that’s how the literary cliche of a ‘harrowing experience’ orginated. Just think of all the times that term has been used through the years now.